You would think that after 5 years.. Five f*cking years.. I would get the hint, and just stop putting myself through this torture. But no. Month after month, I try. I chart. I track. I throw my legs in the air. I convince myself that this month will be MY month... And nothing. Or worse than nothing. 5 years of trying. 3 miscarriages. Endless heartbreak.

And I'm angry. Angry at my body, for being so worthless, it can't even do what it was biologically designed to do. Angry at myself, for being so angry, because I have a beautiful 6 year old son, while thousands of women would kill for what I have. Angry for hoping, again and again. Angry at every woman who just has to look at a guy to get pregnant, then angry at myself some more for feeling that way. Angry at God, for ignoring my prayers and pleas and tears. Angry all of the time.

One day, I will find peace. I will find a way to accept that this is never going to happen, and move on. But for now, I'm gonna go buy yet another box of f*cking tampons, curl up in my bed, and cry.